A/N: This will become a Harry/Tom slash. You have been warned.

Disclaimer: Don't own anything.

OOOOOO

“You may go.” Harry hissed, his voice quiet and menacing in the near empty room.

The boy in front of him leapt to his feet and practically ran from the room. Harry chuckled to himself at how scared the boy was of him, how scared they all were. They’d walk into their first lesson with him, thinking that he would be nice because he was Harry Potter, the saviour of wizard kind, slayer of the Dark Lord. After ten minutes, five if he was having a good day, they would all know that he didn’t do nice. Voldemort had sapped all the nice out of him 4 years ago when Harry had been forced to kill or be killed. Now all he could manage was hate and hard and cold and cruel and intimidating. With a slight pang of guilt, Harry realised that he had become the one teacher he had hated the most. Snape. The emotion was soon pushed aside. Emotion was for the weak. Harry wasn’t weak. Harry didn’t do emotion.

You have become like me, whispered a voice from his memory. Harry nodded his agreement as he gathered up that days lesson plans. Voldemort had been right. They were the same really. Just a light and dark version of the other. The only real difference being that it was Voldemort’s choice to kill, it had been Harry’s duty. With a snort of annoyance Harry swept his papers into a briefcase and swept out of the classroom.

We could rule the world. Together. The greatest partnership the world has ever known. Harry had shuddered at Voldemort’s words as though he were implying more than a simple business partnership.

Harry slammed the door of his private chambers shut behind him and stomped over to the drinks cabinet. Pouring out a large goblet of fire whiskey he raised it to the painting of Voldemort that hung from the wall and then downed it in one.

“I hate you.” Harry whispered before climbing into bed and pulling a diary out from under his pillow.

Harry examined the diary for a moment, once again laughing at the irony of the fact that he was writing in Tom Riddle’s diary. He had long ago repaired the book, all apart from the front and back covers. Several careful tests had revealed that the dairy was nothing more than a book. There was nothing to fear from writing in it. Picking up a quill Harry began to write.

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.

Every entry began like this. It was a ritual now that Harry was too tired to stop.

I’ve become so much like him. Inside him there was so much hurt and pain and the desire to strike fear into others and now that’s all there is left in me. That’s why I hate him. Well, that’s why I hate him today. I can’t remember what I hated him for yesterday. I’ll just check. Oh, yeah. It was for killing Cedric. For taking away the one person I loved. But that was yesterday. Today it’s for making me who I am.

I think I had better ask the headmaster for some time off. My behaviour is becoming increasingly erratic and spiteful. A short break somewhere would do me the world of good. Maybe Bermuda or America or, or Brighton or somewhere. Just a little time away from all the people who know who I am. Yeah, I’ll talk o him about it tomorrow.

I’ve had a little too much to drink and I think I feel a headache coming on. I’d better go to sleep.

I’ll write again soon.

Harry

Harry sighed and shoved the book back under his pillow before flopping down and falling asleep.

OOOOOO

Harry was woken by the sensation of someone watching him. As he blinked awake he found himself gazing up into the darkened face of a teenage boy. Harry gave a surprised yell and scrambled out of the bed, away from the pale youth, at the same time pulling his wand out from under his pillow. The boy, no, no, correction, young man, stood watching him from the other side of the bed, a mildly surprised expression on his face.

The stranger took a step sideways and his face was suddenly illuminated by the candle burning on Harry’s bedside table. With a sickening jolt in the pit of his stomach, Harry recognised the face. After a few moments attempting to say his name and failing miserably Harry gave up and simply stared at him. The teenager stared back before breaking into a smile and holding out his hand.

“You must be Harry Potter. I’m Tom, Tom Riddle.”

OOOOOO

A/N: There we go. Just a sort of introduction to the story. Not particularly gripping. Review? Please.